Is there a crueller sport
Than skimming stones?
I implore you to opine otherwise.
A child of nine,
Face screwed in earnest,
Scouring stones, weighting stones,
Appraising stones like a student
Before the avocado basket.
Not flat enough here,
Not round enough there,
Disfigured, unshapely, aeronautically impaired.
A truffle in the rough!
A wonderstone! Smoothed and plumped
By God’s own hands.
Yet the child admires no more than a moment,
Encircles twixt thumb and index
And adds imperfect technique to a perfect tool.
Six skims? Seven? “I counted eight!” they cry,
Having jettisoned perfection to prop up the lie.